


The Type

by ggfoye



Series: Feysand One-Shots (Fluff, Smut, Angst) [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Book 2: A Court of Mist and Fury, F/M, Fluff, Hurt, Jealousy, One Shot, Pre Mating Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26572363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggfoye/pseuds/ggfoye
Summary: Feyre can’t find a reasonable explanation as to why, suddenly, a hole opened up in her chest as she saw Rhysand flirting at Rita’s.One-Shot. Set during ACOMAF.I do not own any of the characters, Sarah J. Maas does
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: Feysand One-Shots (Fluff, Smut, Angst) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942270
Comments: 17
Kudos: 112





	The Type

The bartender looked at Feyre hesitantly, but still served her order. She downed the shot in one fell swoop and returned to their booth on the corner at Rita's. Only Azriel remained.

"Where are the others?", she asked, sitting down next to the huge illyrian warrior.

He pointed to the dance floor, where Rhys, Cassian and Mor stood, talking, drinking and dancing. It was such a joyful picture—the lights, the colors, the rowdy beauty. She could almost see the pa... No. Not yet.

"You don't wanna dance?"

"Nah, I'm good for now," he replied, then added, "but feel free to join them, I'm fine here..."

"I guess I'm good here too," she answered.

Dancing felt like... too much. Maybe too soon. Or maybe it was just her, being stubborn, refusing to let loose.

She looked at the drink Mor had left behind on the table and picked it up, drinking it all in practically one gulp. Az looked at her, seeming a bit startled.

"That's actually a sipping drink..."

"I know," she simply said.

As the night went on, she stayed on the booth. She felt like that was already progress, though, seeing that not long ago she barely had the energy to get out of bed, let alone leave the house and go to a club.

Her and Azriel talked all night. He wasn't one to share much, but he could very well keep the conversation going. They did a few more shots together and laughed.

Feyre was already starting to feel a bit tipsy, but nothing too bad. Her alcohol tolerance had been increased considerably since she'd turned into a fae—if she was still human, she would have probably been comatose by that point.

As she chuckled at something Az had said, she turned her eye to the crowd, looking for the others. Cassian was dancing with a short female, his lips pressed to her ear as if they tried to talk through the noise. Mor was nowhere to be found. And Rhys... it took her a few seconds to find him, but he was now at the bar counter.

Her heart sank into her boots as she watched him talk to an out-of-this-world beautiful female. She had her hands on his shoulders and he laughed at whatever she was saying. The bartender brought them two drinks, and Feyre realized he was buying them for her. They both toasted and sipped on their glasses together.

Rhys leaned over, whispering something in her ear and then smirking at her.

She knew that smirk. He'd used it on her several times. It was the one that would usually get her blushing in no time.

Feyre would not doubt if someone told her at that moment that there was smoke coming out of her ears. With Beron’s fire living inside her, who could tell if that was implausible or not.

She wanted to look away, to find some sense of self-preservation to get her to at least pretend that wasn't bothering her. But there was nothing else in that room. Only Rhys and his hand, now resting dangerously low on the female's waist.

Except... she could feel a pair of eyes on her. It took her some time to remember Azriel was sitting right beside her. Had he said anything? They had been talking about... what was it really?

Cauldron, she was being so rude.

"Sorry, Az. Did you say something? It's so loud in here."

He studied her for a second. She knew he was deciding whether or not he would pretend he hadn't noticed her looking daggers at Rhysand.

"No... I'm just going to go get Mor. Do you mind being here by yourself for a second?"

"No, of course not. Go ahead."

Sometimes she felt like she was a crazy person who couldn't be left alone. She couldn't blame anyone for thinking that, though. Her current homicidal thoughts were there to prove it.

She couldn't find it in herself to be embarrassed that Az had caught her fuming look. Maybe if it was Cassian... Either way, she couldn't find the energy to care. The Mother knows, if Rhys was too busy to notice, why even bother that someone else did.

Her inner fight lasted about a second before she gave in and turned her head again to that spot in the bar. There was no one there. Her eyes searched urgently through the crowd and found their target short after.

They were dancing—Rhysand's arms were locked behind her as they swayed distractedly, seeming too caught up on their conversation to bother actually dancing.

This time, what hit Feyre wasn't anger. It was choked desolation.

She couldn't understand. She couldn't process it properly. It wasn't like she was... like _he_ was...

They were nothing.

Friends, at best. Though their constant bickering would maybe make some have them demoted to frenemies, or something of the sort. Either way, it was something too complicated to put into words. Still, it wasn't _that_.

It was not the type of relationship that could justify, in any way, the sudden melancholy that consumed her. An emotion so raw and overpowering that took her back to months before—before she stopped feeling at all. Somehow, this felt worse.

She needed to get out of there. If Rhys saw her, he would immediately know something was up. And it wasn't fair to him. She had no reason whatsoever to be that mad at him. She needed time to cool off and retract those inconvenient feelings back to wherever they had surged from. Her life was already complicated enough as it was.

As if she'd read her mind, Mor reappeared, sitting down next to her. Her deep-red lipstick was smudged, but Feyre was too far gone to elaborate on it. Though she noticed Azriel's mouth, from afar, was as clean as it could be.

"Hey, Feyre. What's up?", she asked, trying to sound casual.

Feyre didn't respond. She just downed the rest of whatever was in her cup and stared down at the table, tracing lazy circles on the wood.

"Is everything alright?", Mor insisted.

Feyre sighed languidly, "Yeah...", she said, then reconsidered, "Actually, do you mind taking me home?"

Mor stared at her cautiously, analyzing her expression. That sympathetic, understanding look her friend was giving her wasn't helping.

"Sure," she finally said, sounding almost sad.

Feyre didn't feel interested enough to be confused or troubled by it. The world had suddenly become heavy again, like it was before hi... she was rescued from the Spring Court.

She allowed herself one last look. But it was enough to make the picture settle in her mind—she'd be going home alone. To her bedroom, where she'd be on the front row to whatever continuation Rhys planned for that night.

She could do a lot of things, but _that_... no, she couldn't witness that. Her mind might liquefy if she so much as heard one—

"Actually, can you take me to the House of Wind?"

This time, Mor didn't try to hide her confusion.

"Alright...," she said at a loss, "let's go, then."

Mor winnowed them out of there and then led them into the balcony on the giant house inside the mountain. The blonde pointed Feyre to a bedroom and lent her a nightgown; then when she seemed ready to start questioning her and speculating on what had happened, Feyre thanked her and wished her good night, aiming for a polite dismissal, but hitting something else gruffer.

“Whatever you’re thinking, trust me, you have nothing to worry about,” Mor blurted before winnowing away.

Feyre had no idea what she’d meant by that.

She didn't care. She didn't have the energy for it. Something sparked in her seeing Mor's expression crumble a bit at her rudeness, but she didn't pay attention to it—she couldn't allow herself to. It had been enough emotions for one day.

Feyre lied down on the gigantic bed and wrapped herself on the black silk sheets. She didn't stop the tears from coming, and she didn't notice when her blurry vision became complete darkness. 

———

Pathetic. She felt completely, ridiculously, downright shamefully pathetic.

The sun woke her up and there was a blinding, insisting headache that wouldn't let her forget the night before. It all got ten times worse when she remembered Rhys' inner circle had a breakfast meeting scheduled for that morning. All she wanted was for that bed to swallow her whole and for her to never be able to leave it.

The moral hangover felt even more unsettling and humiliating than the physical one.

It didn't help that, as she turned to the nightstand by the bed, her heart skipped a beat when she noticed a pen lying over a small piece of paper with a note written on it. She didn't need to check the elegant handwriting or read it to know who it was from.

_Where are you?_

Instead of hopeful, Feyre took the immature, easy way out and decided to be angry again—even though she'd realized the night before just how utterly irrational and unjustifiable that was.

She didn't respond; she headed to the bathroom and took a quick shower, starting to wonder if maybe Mor could also let her borrow some clothes for the day until she came back to the townhouse. But the drawers were filled with Night Court-fashioned types of clothing.

That squared white paper reappeared next to the cabinet she was standing next to.

_I know you’ve read it. I can feel you awake. I don't mean to meddle, I just want to know you're alright since you didn't come home last night._

Feyre continued to ignore it at first, but something stopped her then. And so she reconsidered it, thinking herself too petty by not replying.

 _I'm fine_. She simply wrote back.

The note didn't come back after that, and she tried not to acknowledge the disappointment she felt with that fact; or the feeling of hesitant relief she could've sworn streamed down their bond.

As she marched down to the main hall, she noticed Amren and Azriel were already at the table. Mor and Cassian's voices were audible somewhere, seemingly tense but too low for her to distinguish the words. She mumbled an enervated good morning and sat down on the corner, avoiding her usual spot by where Rhys usually sat and making sure she'd be as far away from his sight as possible.

They didn't say anything, and when Mor and Cassian reentered the room and complimented her, she could see they were studying her. She didn't bother entertaining their sudden curious interest, putting some grapes on her plate and starting to nibble on them.

The thread tied to her chest went taut for a second, and she didn't need to look up to know who had entered the room. She could feel his eyes on her, but continued eating and pouring herself juice.

Rhysand and Azriel filled them in on the latest news on Hybern. The lack of response from the human queens was still concerning. Mor informed them about the happenings in Velaris and with the governors, and Cassian explained the situation in the illyrian camps.

Amren was quiet, and Feyre could sense her analyzing her, which she ignored. And she did a fair job at it, until the tiny creature spoke:

"What happened to you, girl?"

The room went silent. Feyre pretended not to notice and finished her drink before answering unaffectedly.

"What do you mean?"

"Your eyes are hollow again," she said bluntly, going straight to the point.

Feyre felt a slight shudder go down the bond and finally lifted her eyes and looked around the table, where every one of them watched her expectantly. She turned her head back to Amren.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she replied, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "If the meeting is over, please excuse me."

Feyre stood up, suddenly very aware of every movement she made and how they were perceived by her watchful audience. But she just really, really needed to get away from Rhysand's wary, insistent stare.

As she walked back to the bedroom, hoping she could go back to sleep and try to avoid reality for a while, she heard the noise of a chair being dragged and continued treading, determined to ignore whoever followed her.

As soon as she took the first step inside her chambers, he called out from behind her.

"Feyre."

His voice sent a nagging pit down her stomach. She ignored it. And him.

"What did I do wrong this time?", he asked—and the question seemed genuinely concerned, and not at all annoyed or irritated.

Feyre looked back to face him, taking a deep breath before doing so. She didn't know what the image would do to her—she hadn't been able to look him in the eye since the night before.

He was standing a few feet away from her in his usual black tunic. The sun beams were reflecting intricate patterns on the membranes of his wings. It was easier to focus her eyes there, somehow. Even though the sight insisted on bringing forth ideas of paintings she would never come to make real. It was still better than facing his deep violet eyes, though, now visibly trying to conceal an emotion she couldn't name.

She sighed, "You did nothing wrong."

It was true. He didn't. She was the one who was acting childish and greedy.

Rhysand stayed very quiet for a while, as Feyre pretended to pay attention to the path his veins trailed up his left wing.

"I was... worried when you disappeared last night. I didn't see you leave," he murmured.

Of course he didn't.

"And then you weren't at the townhouse...", he continued, and she could hear an implied question mark in his tone.

"I slept here."

Something like relief trembled down the bargain thread between them.

"I thought, maybe, you'd gone home with someone, or...", he said quietly, barely sustaining the slightly confused look she was now giving him. "Forget it."

Oh.

Rhysand had thought that she, much like him, had met someone at Rita's and decided to move things to a more private place. If she hadn’t been feeling so tired, she might've laughed at the absurdity of it. If only he'd known what actually went down the night before...

Unsure what to say, Feyre simply told him, "Mor winnowed me here."

His head tilted a bit to the side.

"Why."

Feyre knew what he meant.

"Because." She replied like a child.

But he didn't back down, and kept staring at her, waiting for further explanation. She sighed and shrugged.

"I didn't want to... get in your way...", she picked the words carefully, "when you took that female home. I thought you might want some privacy."

Lies, lies, lies.

Comprehension struck across his face.

"I didn't," he said, "Take her home, I mean."

Feyre, for once, looked puzzled.

"She obviously wanted it, you know," he explained, finally relaxing and letting out a little smirk, pointing to his face smugly like he was proving a point. Feyre rolled her eyes, but seemed to be in slightly better spirits. He continued on a more earnest tone, "But I... didn't feel like it."

Feyre raised her eyebrows. If that high fae wasn't enough to impress Rhys, then how could _she_ even come _close_ to... No. No. She couldn't think like that. She couldn't go down that road.

"A bit picky, don't you think?", she asked, a bit skeptical. "Even I wouldn't mind having my wicked way with that perky little thing."

Rhysand laughed, visibly less tense.

"I can introduce you two if you'd like," he joked, "But yes, I think you'll find that I am _very_ picky."

"Oh, yeah. I get it. The flawless hair, gorgeous face and perfect body isn't really everybody's type."

He shrugged, "I have a very specific type."

"Tell me about it," she said ironically, beginning to gather her things.

But Rhysand told her anyway, putting his hands in his pockets.

"I like them stubborn. Cheeky... brazen, if you will," he began, and Feyre slowly turned to him, "A bit mean, to be completely honest. But... kind. Smart. Brave and... strong."

"That's a very tough... stern list of qualities to check," she murmured.

"Not at all."

"Seems like a lot of finickiness for a one night stand."

Rhys ignored that, "And about the looks... I like golden hair. Not blonde... more like, honey-colored. Blue eyes are a must. Full lips will also go a long way," he said, and Feyre could've sworn his eyes dropped to her mouth for a second there.

She cleared her throat discreetly and looked away, attempting to hide the unexpected redness that colored her face by redirecting her attention to organizing the clothes she'd worn the night before.

The room went dead silent as she folded her dress too thoroughly to look casual. Her eyes betrayed her and she peeked, just in time to see Rhys' composed solemn expression breaking into a cocky smirk.

 _Prick_.

He scoffed a laugh and winked at her. It was too easy to bait her.

"See you at practice later," he said, already halfway through winnowing away.

Feyre's moodiness seemed to fade away when he did. She tried to grab onto it, hold onto it a little longer, just so she wouldn't have to acknowledge and face the fact that Rhysand had, again, single-handedly, flirted away the hole in her chest.

But there it was. That insistent, almost imperceptible, upturn of her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are welcomed :)
> 
> I’m currently binge writing one-shots, so feel free to bother me with requests for Feysand and Rowaelin fanfics!


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